


Cleaning Day

by StarlightDragon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Dogs, First Dates, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Illnesses, Love Confessions, M/M, Meet-Cute, Picnics, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 23:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6260317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightDragon/pseuds/StarlightDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been too sick to leave his house for months, and the highlight of his day is seeing Castiel walk his dog past his window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaning Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trustyourdragons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trustyourdragons/gifts).



> *points to 'Major Character Death warning' wordlessly with an apologetic smile*
> 
> This was another assignment for creative writing class! I'm dedicating it to Abbie because she was the wonderful human who read it before it was even Destiel, and is therefore President of the Maddianna Fan Club. ;)

Cleaning Day

He hasn't been outside in weeks, but he can always tell what the weather is like by the clothes that the dog walker wears.

If it's warm, a light cardigan. If it's cold but still, the leather jacket comes out. If it's windy, a trench coat and a thick scarf tied tight around his neck. If it's raining, an old pink anorak patterned with flowers that Dean can't help but think is adorable.

The dog walker is unique, because he’s there every single day, no matter what. He's only got the one dog, a tiny Jack Russell terrier who can jump seemingly four times its own height, but it's the only identifier Dean has for him. There are plenty of people who Dean can see walk past from his chair by the window, but none of them are quite so regular. He counts them off, one by one, wondering who will be there today. He thought for a while that the man with the long hair might be a daily occurrence too, but then came last Friday when he didn’t show, either taking a different route on his walk to work or calling in sick or any number of other reasons.

But the dog walker always shows. Even that day with the storm where the pink anorak isn’t enough to protect him from the rain battering down overhead accompanied by clouds of thunder, he still makes his usual trek past Dean’s window. The dog loves every second of it, frolicking around in the rain like it's nothing worse than a warm shower, and the owner doesn’t even have the strength to look frustrated by it, doing nothing more than holding up his spare hand in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the onslaught.

Dean prays that night. He hasn’t prayed since 2007, when he entered a huge art competition where the prize was getting his work displayed in a gallery up in Seattle – he’d ended up being given an honorable mention, but no grand prize. It felt good to be mentioned, especially honorably, but in the end it was all just words. As was praying, he supposed. Which was why he never prayed for his illness, not even when it stopped him from being able to leave the house, not even when it made every single movement painful. But the night after the storm, he prays for good weather the next day.

Nobody should have to walk their dog in that shit.

\--

The next day is sunny. It’s not beautiful weather, but then again, it is October, it’s supposed to be getting colder. It’s tolerable to be out in, which is all that matters. The dog walker is in a soft denim jacket and he has a contented half-smile on his face even though he’s not doing anything besides walking along.

The dog stops. Tugs on the lead and detours into Dean’s front yard, some mysterious force urging his to sniff at the flowerbeds underneath the window.

“Sage, what the fuck are you doing?” the dog walker groans, and Dean can’t hold back a smile. “This isn’t your yard, get out of there!”

Dean leans over, and from his chair he can just manage to crack open the window. The chair used to be closer, in the summer, but now it’s kind of shifted away and until now he’s had no motivation to try to move it back.

The dog walker looks up in surprise, and jumps back, clearly not expecting to see a face.

“Don’t worry about it. Someone should appreciate the flowers,” Dean says, hoping he sounds reassuring and not bitter.

The dog walker looks for a moment like he's not sure how to respond, but Dean can see the exact moment he comes up with the perfect solution, because his entire face glows.

He bends down and plucks an iris out of the flowerbed and hands it through the window. "So should you."

Dean takes the flower, and for a moment he just breathes in the scent. It's fresh in a way that he's not used to. The freshest thing he gets these days is a fresh bottle of pain meds.

He half expects the dog walker to be gone by the time he next looks up, but no, the man is still leaning against the window, smiling as though this is a perfectly normal place to meet.

So Dean introduces himself. "I'm Dean Winchester. It's nice to meet you. And your nosy dog."

The dog walker just smirks, not denying anything about the dog but also not seeming like he really minds. "Castiel."

"Oh, my brother's name is Castiel!"

Castiel looks excited. "Is it really?"

"Nope. Just wanted to see if you'd believe me."

\--

It's probably a one off, Dean tells himself, just an unexpected detour that might make a vaguely interesting Twitter update for Castiel. He's certainly not expecting anything more to come of it. Castiel is young and beautiful (they're actually probably about the same age, a traitorous voice reminds him, but Dean prefers to think of himself as older, because that at least means he's lived a full life) and has no reason to visit a sick loner through his window.

But the next day, a little after lunchtime, there's a tap on the glass.

It's less of a stretch to open the window today. "What's up?" he asks, casual as though he's just bumped into Castiel in the supermarket.

"Nothing's up. Just thought I'd see how you were doing today."

"I'm doing. People watching. The usual."

Castiel nods wisely. "That game where you try to guess peoples' life story based on the kind of hat they wear and stuff?"

"Something like that. Why, do you want me to guess yours?" Dean's more of a passive observer, but he's sure he can make something up if it comes down to it.

"Nah, I'm a mystery, you'll never guess mine. Maybe I'll just have to come back every day and give you more hints."

\--

Dean starts to sleep more. Sometimes at night, the pain gets so bad even when he's just lying in bed, it's impossible to sleep, which means he likes to grab some rest when he can. He does his best each day to wait until Castiel shows up, to exchange those few words of conversation through his window that always leaves a smile on his face, even if it's not one you can see, before falling asleep in his chair before he's even seen the two figures disappear from sight. Over time it's more of a challenge. Some days he sleeps in the morning. Some days, he misses Castiel completely.

But he can always tell he's been there. Maybe he's wake up and there'll be a note pinned to the window. "Saw you sleeping - hope you have a good rest! Sage says hi, in a bark-y kind of way. See you tomorrow," it'll say. Other days there'll be a flower pinned to the window, a couple of times there are even tiny gifts like teddy bears and sparkly Christmas decorations that Castiel must have been keeping with him every day, waiting for just the right moment.

There's also the day that the place freezes and the window is covered in frost and Dean wakes up to a stick figure drawing of a man inside a house, and another waving from outside while holding a dog. Even though it's a lot of effort, Dean just has to get up and find his camera, needing to take a picture and preserve this artistic masterpiece forever.

\--

Dean’s awake, but he’s daydreaming, seeing the outside world without really registering it. He’s vaguely aware that there are people going past, but he doesn’t know who they are.

Then, something hits him in the side of the mouth, and there’s a curse from outside.

“Dammit!”

He sits up. It hurts. Castiel is standing on the other side of the window, laughing to himself, holding one of those massive crates of movie theater popcorn, the dog absent. This sight makes it hurt less, somehow.

“What are you doing?” Dean calls out of the window, because it really seems like the only acceptable question right now.

Castiel holds up the container of popcorn, still laughing. “I wanted to get your attention! Was aiming to get it in your mouth, but I guess I missed.”

“You can have another go, if you’d like.”

Dean holds his mouth open in preparation this time, making the game a little easier, and Castiel’s got a better angle so he flicks the popcorn piece and sends it straight into Dean’s mouth. It’s got way too much of that sugary butter syrup stuff on it and it’s so different to the bland, pre-prepared chicken and potatoes meals Dean gets delivered at lunchtimes and he almost wants to reject it because he’s not used to this much flavor in his mouth all at once, but after a moment he gets used to it, his tongue swiping along his lower lip to soak up the last of the taste.

He’s not sure why he says it. He’s been thinking about it for a while, but he never expected to actually get up the courage for it, because why the hell would an attractive dog walker with an excellent coat collection want to spend time with him when there are clearly so many better options?

But- “There’s a spare key under the front doormat. You can come in for a bit. If you want to.”

Castiel’s face lights up. “You want me to come in?”

“Couse I do. I should warn you – it’s a mess. And I’m not as pretty as I look through the window.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Castiel shoots back, before scampering around the front of the house.

Dean can’t see what's happening, and for a horrible moment he thinks that maybe Castiel's run away, thinking it's a better idea to escape the crazy person in the run down house, but then there's a scrabbling around the door, and a second later, a figure appears in the living room.

“Hi,” Castiel says, a bit awkwardly, after a long pause. He looks away and blushes. Dean thinks that he's the one who's supposed to be doing that.

“Hey there,” he replies, with an odd little wiggle of his hand that maybe counts as a wave.

Castiel glances around the room for somewhere to sit, but there isn’t really anywhere.

“How long do you have?”

Dean knows what he's asking, and usually he'd lie, but there's something about the tone Castiel says it in that makes him not want to. “No idea. Been months since I saw a doctor.”

Castiel doesn’t look judgmental, or try to convince him to do anything. He just smiles, walks over, and takes Dean’s hand, perching on the arm of the chair next to his. “In that case, I think it’s time I gave you a check-up.”

He presses two fingers to Dean’s wrist, taking his pulse, and feels his forehead for a fever. He cups his chin with one hand, and Dean lets his mouth fall open so that Castiel can squint inside and pretend to inspect it. Finally, Castiel lays his head on Dean’s chest, listening to his heart, closing his eyes for a moment.

Then he sits up, grinning. “Nope! My highly professional medical analysis says that you’re gonna live for years yet. Short of a murderous ex wife or an unexpected resurgence of the Black Plague, you’ll grow old and die of old age when you’re a hundred and sixteen.”

Dean giggles. He hasn’t giggled in a really long time, and it feels like he's turning an old rusty tap – it takes some effort to get it going, creaking and wheezing in its disuse, but once the initial strain is over it flows just like it always did.

“That’s not going to happen.” He shakes his head once his laughter's died down. “It’s a nice sentiment, but by this point, we’re talking months. If that. Not years.”

“So you do have a murderous ex wife?”

“Well, I have an ex wife. Lisa. She’s an asshole, but she’s not a murderer.”

“Hmm. Better than the other way round, I suppose.”

\--

The next day, Castiel sidles up to the window, all pleading smiles and big puppy eyes, and it's clear that he wants something, but Dean can't for the life of him imagine what.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, a little worried after they've been talking for a few minutes and the strange expression hasn't gone away.

Castiel bites his lip and flutters his eyelashes, rubbing the nonexistent goose pimples on his arm in an exaggerated way. "I was wondering if I could come in again? It's really cold."

Dean's stunned into silence.

"I mean - it's fine if you don't want company. I understand. Another time's fine... I just thought I should ask..."

"Don't be insane. Of course I want you to come in. You don't even have to ask." Show up in my living room each morning, come upstairs and watch me sleep, just move in with me or something, see if I give a fuck, he wants to say. One thing at a time.

\--

“How about we have a cleaning day?”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, good luck with that one. I could never keep this place clean even when I could move around. Used to drive my wife up the wall.”

“I’m serious. You won’t even have to do much. You, me, some good music. We’ll play the game where you pick an artist and I’ll try to figure out your favorite song by them. I’ll do most of the work, you do what you can and just be my cheerleader. We’ll get some flowers. Make this place look great, somewhere you’re happy to spend the rest of your time in.”

Dean laughs, and he laughs so that he doesn't say what's on his mind. To hiM, this is already a place that looks great, and one that he's happy to spend the rest of his time in - as long as Castiel's here, anyway.

They don't end up having a cleaning day that day. Dean's food arrives at lunchtime, as usual, and he has a hard time eating, getting frustrated each time he can't manage to lift a forkful of steak casserole to his mouth. It takes them both by surprise, because it's easy to forget that he's sick sometimes, and Castiel's never considered himself any kind of carer. He's just a person, here to see another person.

But after lunch, they both decide that they need a distraction.

It's the kind of distraction that comes in the form of five straight episodes of Family Feud, which then becomes the two of them making up their own questions for Family Feud, which then becomes both of them trying to make the other laugh by coming up with the most ridiculous answers possible, and before they know it it's night time and the dog is probably getting really pissy outside and Castiel has to call his mother about computer problems and he really, really doesn't want to leave, despite everything saying that he should.

\--

“I have to tell you something. Something pretty important, and I know it might take you by surprise, but-“

“You love me.”

Dean looks away, half-hiding his face. “Am I that obvious?”

“Little bit, yeah.”

Castiel thinks about saving it. He’s always loved the idea of taking somebody by surprise, of not saying those words back right away, but waiting until they least expect it and then leaning over and then whispering it in their ear and watching the look on their face.

He doesn’t dare risk it with Dean. He can’t imagine how he’d feel if he left it too late.

So he brushes the hair out of Dean’s face and runs his fingers through it as he leans over and holds his lips just inches away, so that there’s no space between them to swallow up the words, and he whispers, “I love you too, silly."

\--

"You told me you loved me before we even went on a real date."

Castiel's stopped pretending to perch on the arm of the chair now. He's _in_ the chair, right next to Dean, curled up around his with an arm thrown over his waist protectively (as if it's outside things he needs to be protected from.)

"Please. I didn't go out on dates even when I wasn't sick. High school me preferred to just stay inside and watch black and white VHS tapes of other people having fun."

"Then how did you and your wife meet?"

Dean smiles at that. So that, at least, is a happy memory, even if what came after it wasn't. Castiel files the information away for future use, maybe. "Art school. I needed a model for a project. She volunteered. I painted her. Afterwards, she said that I'd made her look so much better than she actually did. I said I just painted what I saw. She said that anyone who saw her like that had to be in love with her."

Castiel's seen the paintings around the house - landscapes, mostly, sunsets over deserts or how the snow looks when it falls into the ocean. He's never seen any portraits of people before. "I wish you could paint me."

"So do I. You'd look a thousand times more beautiful than her.”

Castiel blushes, trying to stop himself from hiding his face in a cushion like a twelve year old who just got complimented by their cool older crush.

He deflects. "Date night is tomorrow night. Dress up."

\--

Date night dawns, and Dean doesn't know what to expect. His go to outfit is sweatpants and a hoodie, but he has suits and button downs left over from years ago. He tries some of them on, his hands shaking as he does so, maybe from the illness, maybe from nerves. They don't fit. He's lost far too much weight.

He digs further into the back of the closet, finding stuff that hasn't been touched for years, laughing to himself at the sheer ridiculousness that was the unnecessary tie dye and all-over denim of the early nineties.

Then he finds something that might just work perfectly.

"A prom tux?" Castiel snorts when he gets into the house, and it really is one, the worst kind of prom tux that’s clearly dated and has sequins sewn onto the sleeves from where Dean had tried to look fancy, along with a fake flower still in the buttonhole. "I gotta say, I never imagined you as the type to wear a sequined prom tux.”

"My mother chose it," Dean tries to argue, but Castiel's not having any of his lies.

"Come on. We're on a tight schedule."

Dean's terrified of leaving the house. He doesn't know what kind of crazy scheme this man has got into his head, but he knows there's no way he'd survive a restaurant or a theater show or laser tag or whatever it is that people do for dates these days. He'll be an embarrassment and people will be forced to look at him and-

Castiel takes him out the wrong door.

They're in the garden, the back garden, there the walls are high and the trees block anyone from seeing them. A breeze plays with Dean's hair, and it feels almost as good as when Castiel's fingers do it.

Castiel spreads out a rug - no, a picnic blanket, Dean realizes, and the two of them sit down. There are tiny, bite-size sandwiches and those little cocktail sausages and strawberries and sugar cookies and pink and yellow striped angel cake and even champagne, and it's the fucking cheesiest thing Dean's ever seen in his life, and he says so.

"Shit, I forgot the cheese cubes," is Castiel's only response to that.

\--

It gets dark, the temperature drops, and Castiel takes off his blazer and wraps it around Dean's shoulders, and the soft brush of fingertips on his neck warm him up. They fall asleep together outside and wake up in time to watch the sun rise.

\--

Castiel gets up on a Wednesday morning in the middle of May. It’s warm, really, really warm, and he doesn’t need any kind of a coat at all, just a T-shirt over loose pants. Any normal dog would have been excited about the weather, but Sage wasn’t the most normal dog, and somehow preferred the rain and the cold. But even so, he was a dog that needed walking, so Castiel takes him along to Dean’s.

It’s a normal routine by this point. Sage is perfectly happy in the front garden, and these days he doesn’t even have to be tied up. He understands not to go anywhere, and he’s perfectly happy just existing, barking at various weeds that are growing where there’s nobody to tame them.

Castiel’s long since made his own copy of the spare key, because it’s no fun going fishing under the mat in the rain, so he digs it out of his pocket and lets himself into the house.

Dean’s chair is empty.

It’s not the first time this has happened. He could be in the bathroom, which is something that always takes a while, or still making his way downstairs, since it’s pretty early in the morning and he’s been getting up later and later these days. And Castiel can actually hear a sound from somewhere else in the house, someone moving around.

But he knows.

Maybe it’s because the footsteps fall a little lighter than the ones he’s used to. Maybe it’s because the house feels a little colder now; doesn’t have the same atmosphere it used to. Doesn’t feel like home anymore (when the hell did he start thinking of Dean’s house as home, he never even slept here.)

When the owner of the footsteps finally appears, it’s a woman, somehow looking out of place in the small house, with a white face and bloodshot eyes that confirms what didn’t even need to be confirmed.

He looks surprised to see him here. “Who are you?”

“Castiel Novak. I’m—“

“Right. Yeah. I should have known.”

She doesn’t look bitter, just resigned.

“And you’re-“

“Lisa Winchester. Still next of kin, officially, so… looks like it’s my job to clean this place up.”

She rolls her eyes, and it seems like kind of an inappropriate reaction.

He studies her for a second, glancing all around the house, at the piles of magazines and old T-shirts and sympathy cards that probably obscure all kinds of important memories.

“Why don't I help you?”

**Author's Note:**

> direct your screams of pain to **casandsip.tumblr.com**


End file.
